


Something You Can Never Give Back

by orphan_account



Series: Housemates of the ABC [1]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Roommates/Housemates, Fluff, M/M, Tattoo Artist Grantaire, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-07
Updated: 2013-11-09
Packaged: 2017-12-31 19:38:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1035603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Modern AU in which all of Les Amis (plus Marius, Cosette, Éponine, and Musichetta) live together in a big old house, and Enjolras discovers a betting pool.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Don't You Mind?

**Author's Note:**

> Enjolras is a law student, Grantaire is a tattoo artist. Blink-and-you’ll-miss-it mention of drug use, but really this is just fluff and smooches.

_I love you_  
 _Don’t you mind? Don’t you mind?_

—

Grantaire has a habit of lifting books from his flatmates’ rooms. Textbooks mainly—living with two law students and a med student has been an enlightening experience for him, to say the least. He pilfers books of poetry from Jehan’s room and stays up all night with his bedroom door closed and his window open, leaning on the windowsill and breathing smoke into the night air while he reads Keats, Plath, Ginsberg, by the light of his desk lamp. He makes off with Cosette’s socio-political treatises on gender, and when he’s done with those he takes her psychology-focused pop science books. He spends weeks slowly and methodically absorbing Joly’s medical tomes, and then he goes upstairs and checks Combeferre’s room for anything Joly was missing. There he finds books focused on not just medicine, but religion and philosophy, history and politics.

It takes him a few weeks to work up the nerve, but eventually he finds himself running his fingers across the spines of the books that line Enjolras’ shelves—law, yes, but also biographies, Classical texts, scholarly discourse on significant historical events, military campaigns, rebellions failed and successful. He devours them all, one by one, each one returned without so much as a crease in its spine to the exact spot he found it in. He never asks permission, but no one ever says anything.

Then one night, as he’s lying sprawled on his bed halfway through a reread of The Aeneid, there’s a knock at his door. He looks up, mystified that anyone would feel the need to  _knock_ , and calls, “Yeah?”

It’s Enjolras, and Grantaire can’t help looking guiltily at the book he’s currently reading. He’d taken it from Enjolras’ room earlier that day.

Enjolras follows his look and actually smiles, if a little wryly. “Is that my copy of The Aeneid?”

Grantaire slams it shut and offers it to him instantly. “Sorry. I know I shouldn’t have taken it without asking, I just—”

Enjolras shakes his head, still hovering in the doorway, making no move to take it from him. “It’s fine. I don’t mind.”

“Oh.” Grantaire sits up, eyeing him curiously. “Well, you can come in, you know. I’m pretty sure the desire to self-medicate with drugs and alcohol and engage in risky sexual behaviour isn’t transmissible via carpet.”

Enjolras looks as if he’d like to retort, but instead he steps into the room and shuts the door behind him. He looks around for somewhere to sit, and settles for perching on the edge of the wooden chair at Grantaire’s desk.

“What’s up?” Grantaire asks. He genuinely has no idea what could possibly compel Enjolras to venture into his den of sin and depression.

There’s a half-empty bottle of whiskey standing on the desk. Next to it there’s a three-quarters-full bottle of tequila (a gift from Éponine). Just behind that there’s a little wood carved pipe that’s recently suffered heavy use if the state of the cone is anything to go by. Enjolras considers all this in his usual grave manner before he speaks.

“They’ve been betting on us,” he says.

Grantaire blinks. He doesn’t need further elaboration to understand that ‘they’ are their flatmates, and ‘us’—he’s not sure he  _wants_  to understand the implications of that.

“Oh.”

Enjolras meets his eyes steadily, though, and in a strange way it has a calming effect on Grantaire, although he’s pretty sure that logically, it should make him uncomfortable. All he knows is that if Enjolras is looking at him without a trace of consternation on his face, then it can’t be that bad.

“There’s an obscene amount of money riding on whether you’ll get a boyfriend before I, quote unquote, realize I have a sex drive and decide to do something about it,” Enjolras says conversationally, and Grantaire lets his jaw hang for a moment before he manages to collect himself.

“How much?” is all he can think to say.

“I believe it stands at €140 as of tonight.”

“That  _is_  an obscene amount of money,” Grantaire agrees faintly. “And you know all this—how, exactly?”

Enjolras smiles, and it’s  _devious_ , and Grantaire stops breathing. “I was looking for some notes I left in Courfeyrac’s room and I found a notebook open on his desk with all the details recorded. It’s been going on for quite some time, if the dates I saw are accurate.”

Grantaire is determined not to bring up the broader implications of this unless Enjolras forces him to, so he doesn’t. Instead he says, “What do you want to do about it?”

Enjolras leans back in the chair and gazes thoughtfully at the ceiling for a moment. “I haven’t decided yet. I thought you might have some ideas.”

Ordinarily he would, but right now Grantaire can’t  _think_. Enjolras is sitting in his room, in his chair, casually discussing the betting pool their friends have running because Grantaire is so clearly in love with Enjolras that it’s  _actually worth betting on_. Enjolras must realize that. Doesn’t he? It’s obvious. It’s always been obvious, though. Maybe he’s always known and simply chose to pretend he was oblivious because it was easier that way. Grantaire wouldn’t blame him for wanting to avoid the subject.

“Maybe I should get in on it,” he ends up saying, half to himself. Hell would freeze over before Enjolras reciprocated his feelings, and Grantaire would be happy to put money on it if anyone was stupid enough to bet against him.

“You could find a boyfriend and win it,” Enjolras suggests, not looking at him. He’s staring at the whiskey on the desk again—or through it, rather, his gaze soft and unfocused. Grantaire has never seen an expression like that on his face before. He’s still achingly lovely, but there’s a wrongness to it, as if it takes an effort to maintain.

“I don’t do boyfriends,” Grantaire says, talking automatically in an attempt to distract from his own scrutiny of the other man’s face. “I’m terrible at it.”

Enjolras frowns, his gaze sharpening slightly but not shifting from the bottle. “It’s possible to be terrible at loving someone?”

“Oh, loving I can do just fine. But you’re conflating love with relationships, which are two very different things.”

“But related, surely,” Enjolras argues, and for once it is actually hypothetical—in this area, at least, he acknowledges Grantaire’s superior working knowledge.

“Not as often as I’d like,” Grantaire says honestly.

Enjolras tilts his head and fixes Grantaire with an intent stare. Grantaire shivers; he can’t help himself. He knows plenty of people find Enjolras intimidating, and he can see why—the man is beautiful, but that beauty is challenging, distant—and Enjolras himself is nothing if not ruthless, with such gravity and sharp intelligence about him. Even so, for Grantaire that unrelenting intensity is as captivating and exhilarating as it is daunting and draining. He revels in the searing force of his attention as very few people ever have.

“They have €400 riding on whether or not you’re going to tell me you’re in love with me before we all graduate,” Enjolras says finally.

Grantaire sits up straight as if he’d been slapped. He feels strangely lightheaded, and if he could see himself he’d realize he’d gone ghost-white. Enjolras regards him silently, making no move in any direction, seemingly unwilling to say anything further.

So Grantaire says, “That’s a  _lot_  of money.” And then curses himself for saying something so stupid, but he’s still reeling.

“Yes,” Enjolras agrees softly. “Seems it’s the big question. Even Cosette got involved.”

“Oh?” Grantaire laughs weakly, and it comes out sounding strangled. “What did she think?”

“She thought you would.”

Grantaire nods automatically, picking nervously at a bit of torn skin at the edge of a fingernail. “She’s a sweet girl.”

“Grantaire.”

He stops and forces himself to look at Enjolras. And,  _oh_. His cold composure has finally slipped a little—only a little, but it’s obvious to Grantaire. He’s never seen those startlingly blue eyes look like that, fever-bright and ever so slightly vulnerable. That’s it—it’s the vulnerability that strikes him. Enjolras just  _isn’t_ vulnerable. Not ever. Except that he is right now, and Grantaire’s mind is still five steps behind, scrabbling to catch up and offer an explanation as to why that might be.

“Were you ever going to tell me?” Enjolras asks him.

“Probably not,” he admits. He keeps trying to swallow the feeling rising in his chest. It’s dangerously close to hysteria.

“Why not?”

“Because,” he says, forcing himself to speak in a steady voice like a normal human being, “I thought it was obvious, for one. And it’s not like any good would come of it if I did tell you.”

“You’d never know for sure,” Enjolras argues, but his voice is so low Grantaire can barely hear him.

“It’s  _you_ ,” Grantaire says, willing him to be less obtuse and  _understand_  for once. “You wouldn’t—you don’t—”

“I don’t what?” Enjolras asks, and the icy mask is repaired now.

Grantaire sighs. “You don’t  _do boyfriends_ , Enjolras. Same as me, except you’re so good at being disinterested we had to ask Combeferre just to clarify that you’re not asexual. Not that there’s anything wrong with being asexual. But apparently you’re just really repressed or something.”

“You asked Combeferre if I was asexual,” Enjolras repeats, deadpan.

Grantaire shifts uncomfortably. “If it makes you feel any better, nobody placed any bets on it.”

“You asked  _Combeferre_  if I was—” Enjolras breaks off mid-sentence with an effort, shutting his eyes and sighing deeply. “Fine. I can acknowledge that I have been less than demonstrative in that area.”

“That’s one way to put it,” Grantaire agrees wryly.

“But even if I had been asexual—and I’m not, which you would’ve known if anyone had bothered asking me—even if I  _were_  asexual, that wouldn’t necessarily mean I was aromantic.”

Grantaire shrugs gracelessly, returning his attention to his nails. “I’m not the sort of guy people feel romantic about. Not you, anyway. I mean, you haven’t exactly made it a secret that you don’t like me.”

Enjolras blinks, apparently stunned for the first time since he walked through the door. “What are you talking about?”

Grantaire eyes him warily. “What?”

“I don’t dislike you,” Enjolras says, sounding appalled by the idea. “I’ve never disliked you.”

“But,” Grantaire says slowly, “the only time you ever speak to me is to tell me off. Literally.”

“Well, the only time you ever speak to me is to mock me,” Enjolras shoots back fiercely.

Grantaire hesitates. “Okay, point. But to be fair, I was doing that because I am honestly pathetic and it was the only way I could think of to get your attention. And I was trying to act like I didn’t want to fuck you senseless even though I very obviously have wanted to do exactly that since the first time I ever heard you speak, and that was too much information, sorry, but my point is that it was a piss poor disguise for much more complicated feelings on my part, whereas with you—”

Enjolras, blushing deeply at Grantaire’s admission about wanting to fuck him, interrupts: “With me, it was mostly born of frustration that someone so brilliant and talented seemed so intent on derailing every discussion—”

Grantaire scoffs. “You were just sore that I didn’t buy into your idealism.”

“Grantaire, you’re the only person apart from Combeferre to whom I have ever truly lost a debate. You’ve made off with almost every book I own and I can’t bring myself to mind.”  Enjolras stands and begins to pace, face still flushed and no less beautiful for it. “And your art—before I met you, I admit, I thought tattoos were pointless and a little trashy. But then there was  _you_ , and—I’ve never seen anything like your work.”

Grantaire watches him, slack-jawed and aware of it but unable to correct his expression. He’s never heard Enjolras speak like this, so ineloquent and scattered. Usually the force of his passion serves to galvanize him and only adds to the inexorable conviction of his words, but now it’s as if he’s fighting it every step of the way. It’s equal parts unsettling and endearing.

Grantaire collects himself enough to interrupt: “What exactly are you getting at, O fearless leader?”

“I’ve told you not to call me that,” Enjolras snaps automatically, and then sighs, frowning. “I apologise. This is difficult.”

Grantaire raises his eyebrows. “What is?”

Enjolras squares his shoulders, takes a deep breath and looks Grantaire in the eyes (is he  _nervous_?). “Will you tell me, please?”

“Tell you what?—Oh.” Grantaire hesitates. “Really? What for?”

“Just—please.”

“Are you trying to win the bet for someone so you can split the winnings?” Grantaire asks. He supposes it’s a joke, but his heart’s not in it. When Enjolras just raises his eyebrows and looks at him almost pleadingly, he knows he’s done for. “This is a terrible idea,” he warns him. “We  _live_  together. You realize this is going to make things really awkward, right?”

Enjolras doesn’t reply, but sits down beside him on the bed and watches him expectantly.

“Okay. I, um. I love you?”

It comes out a question and he almost winces as he says it, but it’s out. He’s staring fixedly at his own lap, until Enjolras reaches out with one hand and gently tilts his face up with two fingers under his chin. The contact is enough to startle Grantaire into acquiescence, and he’s still trying to process this when Enjolras leans forward and kisses him. It’s light, and brief, and perfectly innocent really, but it has Grantaire’s heart pounding in two seconds flat and he silently thanks God that Joly is just across the hall in case he has a heart attack because  _holy shit what just happened?_

“You didn’t sound especially sure of that,” Enjolras is saying, and he’s  _teasing_ him. His tone is definitely playful.

Enjolras, playful.

Enjolras, kissing him again, a little more firmly this time, and Grantaire’s brain kicks in enough that he finally returns it, tentatively. He’s about 70% sure this is a hallucination. Maybe this whole conversation has just been an anxiety-laden acid trip, although he hopes he’d remember dropping acid. Okay, so it’s probably not an acid trip, but that means that this is actually  _happening_. Enjolras is really kissing him and brushing his fingertips across his face like he’s something too delicate to handle roughly. It’s surreal and frankly a little alarming.

“Are you—is this a pity thing?” Grantaire gasps, pulling away.

Enjolras frowns at him. “No. This is an I like you and I find you attractive and I want to kiss you thing.”

“Nothing in that sentence made a lick of sense.”

“The syntax was awful but I think the sentiment was clear,” Enjolras says, completely missing the point.

“No, wait. Since  _when_  do you like me or—any of that?”

Enjolras sits back. “I don’t know exactly. Weeks ago, I suppose.” He hesitates, thinking about it.  “It was a movie night. I don’t remember the movie, though, because I was sitting next to you and all I could think about was how much I wanted to trace your tattoos.”

Grantaire stares. “You what?”

And now Enjolras is blushing again, good god, he looks unreasonably gorgeous when he does that, it’s completely unfair. “I’ve always liked your tattoos. Is that creepy? It sounds creepy now I say it out loud.”

“It’s not creepy,” Grantaire breathes, and this time it is he who leans forward and when they kiss it’s something between urgent and joyful. Enjolras is warm and eager and  _amazingly_  responsive—Grantaire isn’t sure why that comes as a surprise, but it does. His tongue darts between Grantaire’s lips, but delicately, like he’s a little unsure of himself. Grantaire responds in kind and makes it into a sort of challenge, and Enjolras  _knows_  what to do with a challenge—he’s still _Enjolras_. By the time they break apart he’s half in Grantaire’s lap, his hair is a mess, his pupils blown, his lips shiny and kiss-swollen. Grantaire can’t help it; he laughs, giddily.

“I absolutely do not understand what’s going on,” he confesses. “Not that I’m complaining. At all. But this is very confusing.”

Enjolras scoots a couple of inches away from him, adopting a serious expression, which only throws his debauched appearance into sharper relief. Grantaire thinks he’s never been more beautiful.

“You’re right,” Enjolras is saying. “I’m sorry, I got a bit—ahead of myself. What do normal people do in this situation? Date, I suppose.”

Grantaire eyes him sideways. “Since when do you care what normal people do?”

“I don’t, but it sounds like fun,” Enjolras says, and he’s smiling at Grantaire with such open affection that Grantaire can’t help but smile back.

“Was that—are you seriously asking me out?”

“Yes, Grantaire,” Enjolras says, slightly exasperated, “I am seriously asking you out. Will you please, for the love of god, go on a date with me?”

Grantaire stares at him for a moment, and when he starts to feel dizzy he reminds himself to breathe. “Yeah. Okay. I mean, of course. Are you—sure?”

Enjolras rolls his eyes and doesn’t bother answering the question. “How’s Friday?”


	2. Take Up My Heartstrings

Friday found Grantaire at a hole in the wall vegan Thai restaurant sharing spring rolls and Pad Thai with Enjolras. In the back of his mind he’d been expecting this whole date to be disastrous in half a dozen different ways—he was sure he’d have a panic attack before he could make it to the restaurant and have to cancel, or he’d freak out as soon as he sat down and start drinking like he was aiming to black out before midnight, or Enjolras would take one look at him and say  _I’ve made a terrible mistake_ —but in the end it wasn’t all that different to any other time he’d shared a meal with Enjolras.

Except for the part where it was just the two of them, and their knees were pressed together under the table, and he could hardly stop smiling long enough to actually eat anything. Enjolras was going for Hipster Of The Year in skinny jeans and a plaid shirt, but Grantaire couldn’t bring himself to tease him about it because he made it look so damn good.

“I wasn’t sure you’d eat vegan,” Enjolras said with a lopsided smile.

Grantaire shrugged. “Why not? You’re the one with dietary restrictions, not me. Anyway the food here is pretty good.”

Enjolras paid for dinner over Grantaire’s protests: “This is a terrible tactic for dismantling the patriarchy!”

“Are you a woman, Grantaire?” Enjolras asked as they left the restaurant. “Because I’m afraid if you aren’t, then that argument isn’t even vaguely applicable. I don’t see why I shouldn’t pay for the date I all but bullied you into.”

“Sorry, but you didn’t bully me into anything,” Grantaire began. He faltered when Enjolras reached over and claimed his hand, lacing their fingers together as they walked.

“You can pay for the next one,” Enjolras said magnanimously, staring straight ahead with a little catlike smile on his face.

“The next one,” Grantaire echoed.

“Assuming you want there to be a next one?”

“Yeah,” Grantaire said, too quickly, “um, yes. I mean. Obviously. Jesus, I’m not even drunk, why can’t I form sentences?” he muttered, half to himself, and tried to hide his face in his free hand.

“You have no problem forming sentences when you’re drunk,” Enjolras pointed out wryly.

“Then it’s definitely your fault,” Grantaire shot back.

“I think that was a compliment,” Enjolras said complacently.

Grantaire let out a frustrated little laugh. “Oh, you  _like_  depriving me of my ability to communicate effectively?”

“You’re communicating very effectively right now,” Enjolras said with a sideways glance and a grin. “I don’t think you’re as helpless as you claim.”

“Well, I’ll admit, this is going better than I’d imagined it would,” Grantaire said honestly. “I was expecting to fuck up well before we reached the walk home.”

Enjolras frowned. “What did you think was going to happen?”

“I don’t know,” Grantaire mumbled. “I always manage to say  _something_  that sets you off. Or I drink too much and start talking total bullshit.”

“You only had two beers tonight,” Enjolras reminded him.

“That was intentional,” Grantaire confessed, a little awkwardly. “I mean, I know you already know about—uh, me—” he  _hated_  the term ‘alcoholic’ and there was no force in the universe that could compel him to say it now, when things were going okay, “—but that doesn’t mean I needed to get a head start on proving myself a disappointment.”

“That isn’t  _you_ ,” Enjolras said quietly.

“It’s me some of the time,” Grantaire said with false lightness.

“Grantaire,” Enjolras said with a sigh, and Grantaire braced himself, because this was it, he’d already managed to talk himself out of the single best thing that had ever happened to him,  _why_  couldn’t he ever just keep his mouth shut—“neither of us ever said this was going to be easy. But we’re here now, and we made it through dinner with no catastrophes. I don’t know about you, but I still want to kiss you goodnight when we get home and plan to do this again sometime. Everything else can wait.”

Grantaire took a deep breath and nodded. He flexed his fingers just to feel Enjolras tighten his grip in response, and said, “Makes sense, I guess.” He paused. “Did you just say you want to kiss me goodnight?”

“Is that acceptable?” Enjolras asked, fixing him with an arch look, which he maintained for as long as it took Grantaire to start laughing.

“You’re surprisingly traditional for someone with a head full of subversive ideas,” Grantaire informed him.

“So you don’t want a goodnight kiss?” Enjolras asked teasingly as they rounded the corner onto their street.

“What kind of girl do you take me for?” Grantaire cried, grinning. “I let you kiss me  _once_  and all of a sudden you think I’m easy.”

Enjolras shook his head. “Actually, you let me kiss you twice, and ‘easy’ is ridiculous terminology designed to shame women who fail to meet impossible standards of—”

Grantaire rolled his eyes and interrupted: “I’ll do penance for my slut-shaming linguistic choices tomorrow. You’re more than welcome to kiss me anytime you like, and if I were wearing a skirt I’d let you put your hand up it. How’s that for consent, O mighty social justice warrior?”

Enjolras attempted a severe look, but his lips were twitching. “It’ll do,” he said after a moment, and turned up the steps to the flat, pulling Grantaire along with him.

The house was old and enormous—three storeys, perched on a slight rise and surrounded on all sides by a thick frame of trees. It was falling apart in places, but startlingly modern in others. The off-white paint was peeling and the threadbare carpets had probably been around since the ’70s, but the kitchen and bathrooms were all less than five years old, which was a blessing. There were 14 bedrooms all told, 13 of them currently occupied, plus a basement that doubled as a laundry and a band practice room.

The steps leading up to the house carved a narrow, winding path through a wildly overgrown front garden, which thoroughly obscured the bottom part of the building from the street. It was a mess of a place, owned by a man who lived 40 minutes outside of the city and didn’t seem care what happened to it so long as the rent kept coming—which made it ideal for Les Amis. They were a haphazard mix of students, artists, stoners, activists, and musicians, possessed of some unorthodox and frequently illegal habits. The last thing they needed was a landlord who took an active interest.

As they neared the house they  were met with the slightly muffled sound of music playing in Bahorel’s room. The lights were on upstairs. Grantaire let go of Enjolras’ hand, suddenly unsure how obvious they were supposed to be about this.

“Did you tell anyone about tonight?” Enjolras asked, as if he’d heard Grantaire’s thought.

Grantaire leaned against the doorframe and shook his head. “I didn’t want to jinx it,” he admitted. “I haven’t told anyone anything. You?”

“Me neither. I kept having visions of the lot of them waiting up for us and then grilling us when we got back.”

Grantaire pulled a face. “They’re going to grill us anyway once they work it out. They’ll want to know who won that fucking bet.” He frowned. “Who  _did_  win?”

“Cosette and Bahorel are going to be splitting the winnings 50/50,” Enjolras said with a wry smile.

“No one else thought I’d do it? Bastards. I thought Jehan would have more faith in me.” He paused. “Why are we hovering outside our own house?”

Enjolras smiled brightly. He looked as if he was barely containing nervous laughter, which was simultaneously adorable and completely unexpected. Grantaire had seen him face riot police with barely a flicker of apprehension; he had definitely never seen him smile like this. “Well,” he said, slowly but deliberately crowding Grantaire back against the door, “taking into account our well-intentioned but  _incredibly_  invasive housemates, I thought maybe I should do this here.”

Grantaire had time to think,  _Son of a bitch he’s tall_ , before Enjolras was kissing him. He got his hands fisted in Enjolras’ stupid plaid shirt and pulled him closer, because he was damned if he was going to stand on tiptoe. Enjolras moved willingly enough, curled his fingers around Grantaire’s shoulders and tilted his head for a better angle, and Grantaire arched up and kissed him back. There was no hesitation this time, no second-guessing; it was  _easy_. He breathed in the warm scent of Enjolras’ skin and pushed his tongue into his mouth to taste him and Enjolras responded as if he knew already what Grantaire liked, as if it was second nature for him to nip gently at his lower lip and run his fingertips slowly up the side of his neck until he shivered.

Enjolras pressed his forehead to Grantaire’s and muttered, “Was that okay? I don’t—” he grinned, swallowed a laugh, tried again: “I don’t really know what I’m doing, so.”

“Fuck off,” Grantaire found himself saying wonderingly, “you’re perfect.”

Enjolras took half a step back. “Even though I’m surprisingly traditional?” he asked, with a wry twist to his smile.

Grantaire’s stomach dropped. “Wait, you think I actually  _care_  about that?”

“I don’t know. You’re not really the dating type,” he said carefully, “and I’ve lost track of the amount of awkward encounters I’ve had with your one night stands—”

“Enjolras, they’re  _one night stands_ ,” Grantaire interrupted quickly. “I was almost definitely drunk as fuck when I took them home and half of them sneaked out in the morning because neither of us was remotely interested in facing each other sober. You’re different. This is different. If you want to kiss me goodnight and leave it at that, that’s fine, that’s more than fine—”

“So…not disappointing,” Enjolras said, as if he wasn’t entirely sure.

“Are you  _high_?” Grantaire demanded, and Enjolras laughed softly. “No, it’s not  _disappointing_ , Jesus Christ.”

“Just checking.”

“You’re fucking ridiculous,” Grantaire muttered, rolling his eyes and digging in his pocket for his house key.

“I thought I was perfect?” Enjolras teased. He followed Grantaire inside and hesitated at the bottom of the stairs; his room was on the second floor, but Grantaire’s was across from Bahorel’s on the ground floor.

“The ridiculousness contributes to the perfection, it’s a very clever system designed to make me want to set myself on fire.”

“Please don’t set yourself on fire,” Enjolras deadpanned. “I’m not done with you yet.”

“Oh, well, in that case.” Grantaire smiled and fiddled with his keys. “So, um.”

“Thank you,” Enjolras said softly. “For tonight, I mean. It was—good.”

“It  _was_  good, wasn’t it?” Grantaire said, trying not to look too triumphant. “I think we did pretty well.”

Enjolras made a tiny, helpless noise, closed the distance between them in two strides, and kissed the smug grin off Grantaire’s face. “Goodnight,” he mumbled against his lips.

“Goodnight,” Grantaire echoed, and then he watched in stunned, pleased silence as Enjolras almost ran up the stairs.

—-

He had to tell someone. He couldn’t  _not_ , now that he and Enjolras were actually dating; it felt too much like lying, sneaking around like they had something to hide. Grantaire wouldn’t have blamed Enjolras if he had wanted to keep it secret, but Enjolras assured him that wasn’t the case.

“I just don’t really see that it’s any of their business, that’s all. If you want to tell someone, then tell someone,” he said, and shrugged. “I think Combeferre knows, but he’d never say anything.”

The day was one of the hottest of the year so far, and contrary to popular misconceptions about Enjolras’ superhuman dedication to study, Grantaire had found it quite easy to talk him into giving up on finishing his readings. They were currently sprawled on Grantaire’s bed with a battered chess board between them.

“Do you have any strong objections to me just accidentally blurting it out at breakfast or something? Because that’s probably what’s going to happen,” Grantaire warned him.

“I can’t remember the last time you were up in time for breakfast,” Enjolras said absently, and flopped onto his back with a dramatic sigh. “It’s too hot for chess.”

Grantaire snorted. “By which you mean I’m winning, and you’re a sore loser.”

“I am not,” Enjolras protested halfheartedly.

“You’re ridiculously competitive. It’s adorable. You care  _so much_ ,” Grantaire teased. He curled up on his side and started idly flicking Enjolras’ pawns across the room. “You know they’re going to overreact, right? There will probably be tears. Yelling. Hugging. We  _know_  there’ll be money changing hands.”

“Champagne,” Enjolras added, eyes closed, smiling slightly and looking like nothing so much as a big golden cat.

“Balloons,” Grantaire said. “And cake.”

“Streamers will mysteriously appear and confetti will fall from the ceiling.”

“That’s not a mystery, that’s Courfeyrac’s standard reaction to anything good. His one night stands get party hats and they leave with glitter in their pubes.”

Enjolras laughed and rolled onto his stomach. “What about yours?”

“Complimentary tequila shots,” Grantaire said dryly. “Give me your arm.”

Enjolras obeyed without question, stretching out his left arm for Grantaire and pillowing his face on his right. He watched with quiet interest as Grantaire plucked a Sharpie from the folds of the duvet he was lying on and uncapped it with his teeth before starting to draw on Enjolras’ skin, starting at his wrist and working his way up. Enjolras smiled and closed his eyes again.

“Why don’t you just send a mass text?” he suggested eventually. Grantaire paused in the middle of drawing an intricate series of wavelike curves on the inside of his elbow and looked at him in surprise; he’d been quiet for so long he’d thought he’d fallen asleep.

“You know, that’s actually not a bad idea,” he said slowly.

Enjolras hummed tonelessly and opened his eyes to peer at the densely packed half-sleeve Grantaire had given him. He considered it for a moment, and then said, “I like the goat skull.”

It was more a thickly-lined suggestion of one, drawn on the inside of his wrist, with curved horns and jagged edges. It was flanked by a prowling wolf on one side, and on the other a series of careful parallel lines, like circuitry, which spread and ran up to the widest part of his forearm, where they were abruptly terminated by a snakelike band of what looked like Elvish text.

“Of course you do,” Grantaire said, “you’re a Capricorn.” He replaced the pen’s cap and tossed it carelessly in a random direction.

Enjolras stifled a yawn and rolled onto his back, considering Grantaire with half-lidded eyes. “It’s kind of weird that you know that.”

“ _Weird_? I know when my boyfriend’s birthday is and that’s  _weird_? Ungrateful,” Grantaire huffed mockingly.

Enjolras gave him a slow smile. “You’ve never called me that before.”

“What?” Grantaire thought back, realized he hadn’t, and blushed. “Oh. Sorry.”

“Don’t apologise,” Enjolras  laughed. “Come here.”

Grantaire did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! If you want to come poke me with a stick and ask me questions or prompt me or tell me what you thought or how your day was or anything really, my writing blog on tumblr is scryptid.


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